Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

"..."

"…Wa…"

"…Wake…"

"Up…"

"Wa…ke… up!"

"Wake up!"

The voice was small, weak, yet desperate.

Its owner tugged at my sleeve, my chest, shaking me with all the strength it could muster.

I groaned.

My body felt like lead.

The world was a haze of pain and... cold?

"Wake up!"

Again, the tug. Again, the voice.

A small, warm hand grabbed mine, lifting it, pressing it against something soft.

A cheek.

"Wake up… please."

My eyes fluttered open.

I didn't see the night sky or the broken buildings around me.

I didn't see the filth of the alley or the rats scurrying in the distance.

No, the first thing I saw was him.

I saw the angel welcoming me to heaven.

It was… no, that couldn't be.

Was my child killed as well?

My family.

Were they alright?

I couldn't ask him; I didn't dare ask him.

Although he looked older, I knew him to be my son, I—

His face, thin but fuller than before, his lips cracked but still smiling, his eyes… so much older than when I last saw them. His hair, longer, messier.

And yet, he was here.

Why?

I blinked, confused.

My vision swam in and out of focus.

I should be dead.

I should be.

And yet—

The warmth against my palm anchored me.

His small fingers curled around mine, his grip stronger than I ever remembered it being.

I gasped, my voice a rasp, my lips struggling to move.

"You're…"

My son didn't say a word.

He only closed his eyes, pressing his cheek further against my palm.

And then, finally, he spoke:

"I'm sorry."

I froze.

What?

He apologized to me, a father who deserved nothing but death.

The one who had failed him, his brother, his sister, and especially his mother.

I must have misheard. I had to have misheard.

His lips parted again, his voice cracking under the weight of words no child should ever have to say.

"And you are forgifen."

My breath caught.

It was like being gutted, like a dagger slipping between my ribs and twisting deep into my rotten soul.

I… was forgiven?

By him?

By my son?

A choked noise escaped my throat.

It sounded almost like laughter.

"Hah…"

"Hahaha…"

It started as a quiet chuckle, dry and hoarse, then grew into something else—something broken.

I didn't know if I was laughing or sobbing.

My fingers twitched, curling against his cheek.

His skin was so, so warm.

His little body was real.

And I—

I was still alive.

I didn't deserve this.

I didn't deserve him.

I didn't deserve the forgiveness, the warmth, the hope in his eyes.

And yet, he had given it to me anyway.

A shadow shifted behind him.

I looked up.

And there she was.

My wife.

Her face was gaunt, her eyes exhausted, her lips pressed into a thin line.

She looked… different. Not just thinner, not just older. No, it was something else.

I couldn't place it. She just stood differently.

Then I saw them—my other children.

My daughter peeked from behind her legs, her face rounder than before, her clothes less tattered.

Next to her was my oldest son, and he too had an improved appearance.

I saw it then.

They were… surviving.

They had survived without me.

A part of me broke at the sight.

A part of me was relieved.

And yet, even though they had lived without me—had done better without me—

They were here.

Waiting.

Wanting.

For me.

Tears slipped from my eyes before I even realized I was crying.

"I…"

I tried to speak, but my voice failed.

No words came out.

What could I say? That I was sorry?

That I wished things had been different?

That I wished I had died instead of returning like this?

No words could erase what I had done. What I had failed to do.

And yet, they were here, standing before me, looking at me like I was worth something.

Like I still had the right to be their father.

Tears burned my eyes.

I was too weak to wipe them away. Too broken to care.

My son—my beautiful boy—held my hand tighter, as if he was trying to tell me it was alright. As if he wanted me to believe his words.

But how could I?

I had stolen from them.

I had abandoned them.

I had let my wife suffer while I lay in filth like a useless dog.

I should have been the one on my back in that ditch.

I should have been the one they discarded and left to rot.

And yet…

I was here.

"I'm sorry."

It was all I could say.

All I could say.

Because what words could exist for something like this?

What words could exist for a man who abandoned his family, stole from his starving wife and children, wished for their deaths only to be welcomed back?

What was I supposed to say?

No words would ever be enough.

And yet, my son's grip remained firm on my hand.

My wife still stood before me.

And my children still looked at me with those eyes.

Those damn eyes.

Hopeful.

For me.

And I…

I didn't know if I could ever be the man they deserved.

But I knew one thing for certain.

I couldn't run anymore.

Not from them.

Not from myself.

I clenched my jaw.

And with all the strength left in my wretched, ruined body—

I held my son's hand back.

"Thank you."

The words barely made it out, my throat too dry.

My wife stepped forward, kneeling beside me.

Even now, after everything, she was gentle.

Even now, after everything, she smelled like home.

"Shh… Don't speak."

She whispered.

"You need rest."

She pulled out a small waterskin and lifted it to my lips.

The first drop hit my tongue, and I nearly wept.

It wasn't much, but it was clean. Pure. Unlike me.

My fingers twitched as I grasped the waterskin and drank, careful not to waste a single drop.

My wife—my heart, my light—watched me the entire time, her eyes soft, her lips trembling.

"Where… where did you get this?"

I finally rasped.

She hesitated. Just for a moment. Just long enough for me to understand.

The water turned sour in my stomach.

"I… I found work."

...Work? I had misunderstood.

"A kind woman needed someone to clean her shop. She pays in food and water. It's not much, but it's enough."

Enough.

Enough to keep them alive.

Enough to keep them from starving.

Enough to keep them from following me into the pit I had been drowning in.

"And the children?"

I croaked, my eyes flickering to them.

My youngest had not let go of my hand.

My daughter, my little girl, clung to her mother's dress, her brown eyes shining.

My oldest stood still, biting on his fingers, barely holding himself back from crying.

"They eat. Not much, but they eat."

My wife answered.

"We manage."

We manage.

She didn't say it, but I heard it in her voice.

They managed without me. They survived without me.

My presence was not what kept them alive. It was her. My wife. My angel.

She had carried this burden alone, while I wallowed in my own misery.

And still, still, she looked at me like I was worth something.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to rip my own skin off, to claw at my face until nothing remained.

I wanted to throw myself back into No Man's Land and let the vultures pick my bones clean.

But I didn't.

Because my wife still knelt beside me.

Because my sons still held my hand and cried for me.

Because my daughter still looked at me with wide, searching eyes, waiting to see if her father was still there, buried beneath the filth and the shame.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to sit up.

My body protested, but I ignored it.

I was tired. I was starving. I was broken. But I was not dead.

Not yet.

"I need to do something."

My wife said nothing.

My youngest squeezed.

My oldest let out his tears.

My daughter shifted closer.

I looked at them—really looked at them—and made a vow.

I would not let them suffer anymore.

I would not let my wife sell herself for scraps.

I would not let my children grow up in filth, with empty stomachs and hollow eyes.

I would not be a ghost in their lives.

I would find a way.

A way that didn't involve my death.

I would not fail them again.

Deep inside, beneath the pain, beneath the hunger, beneath the overwhelming sense of powerlessness…

A fire had been lit.

And it would never go out.

...

...

...

A white light appeared.

It swallowed him whole.

Everything disappeared.